


No One Else Will Do

by TheBiQueenOfLineBreaks (TheUnwritten1219)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Artist Castiel (Supernatural), Artist Dean Winchester, Everyone Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, Jealous Castiel (Supernatural), Jealous Dean Winchester, Jealousy, Love, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Novak sibling banter, Oblivious, Photographer Dean Winchester, Romance, Romantic Friendship, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:01:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26924023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheUnwritten1219/pseuds/TheBiQueenOfLineBreaks
Summary: Dean takes a step closer to Cas, closer than either of them had allowed since they first met. They aren’t touching but they might as well be, Deans heat seeping into Cas trembling skin, heart racing.He tries to think of something to say but Dean continues before he gets the chance, “Then there’s the way you turn back around for half a second before you've gone. Like you're begging me to say something. To ask you to stay. There’s the way I catch your gaze from across the room and even though you turn away, you bite your lip in that absolutely sinful way that makes me want to replace your teeth with mine and show you what we’re missing...”Dean is all but a breath away.Cas knows he should push him back, put a stop to the electric storm crackling between them. Dangerous and impending of something destructive, but... Dean is all but a breath away...Or,What if you lived in a world where whatever ink is placed on your skin will also appear on your soulmates?What if you were a dedicated artist who spent their entire life composing beautiful and complex works of art along your skin, all as a sheepish love letter to your soulmate years before you would even meet?What if your sister met him first?
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Gabriel/Sam Winchester
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	No One Else Will Do

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, Lovlies!   
> I’ve been wanting to post this fic for a while. It’s my first multi chapter red fic on Archive so this is gonna be interesting, I really hope you like it, I’ thinking about six chapters so it shouldn’t be too strenuous of a wait.  
> I hope you enjoy!

**_Whatever our souls are made of,_ **

**_his and mine are the same._ **

Have you ever loved something instinctively?

Not a love at first sight sort of a deal, more like, there's no way we haven't known each other since the creation of the stars, sort of a deal.

One of the very first things you learn as a child is for every person, there's a soulmate.

For every person there's a perfect match somewhere out there waiting for you. One person alive designed with the soul purpose-pun intended- to find you and bring you unparalleled happiness.

Of course, god or creation, or the universe, whatever cosmic deity powerful enough to extend such a privilege, couldn’t make it easy on humanity.

Yes, nearly every person with a soul had a corresponding soulmate, that part is pretty easy, the catch resided in the _when_ you were made aware of that.

Overall, Dean would say it was simple enough. For most, after you turned 21 years of age, the marks started to appear. In order to receive the marks at all you _‘had to become who you were always meant to be’_ , whatever the fuck that meant.

Most people didn’t notice right away, vague lines odd and discrete in nature on scattered fingers could suggest you were holding your pen wrong at work or in class. It wasn't until you had a half scrawled reminder written in bold on the back of your hand informing someone out there, you were someday meant to love that they had an appointment at 2 o’clock, that the significance of those vague, hardly there lines were revealed.

Still, the fact that a marker of any kind exists to help in the grandest search of anyone's life was more than Dean would have thought God would be willing to offer.

In hindsight, it probably wasn’t all that difficult to find your soulmate in this day and age. Most people he knew simply wrote their name on the back of their hand and waited for a response.

He was never very eager to participate.

Dean’s goal in life was to _live_.

To draw and take photos of beautiful and ugly things alike in his home of California.

His purpose in life was to immortalize the overlooked on photographic paper and not let the implications of an unwanted soulmate distort the image he envisioned for himself.

Dean would love to say he found the whole ordeal comical, and he could- he _did_... For a while.

The photographer prided himself in the self-made decision that he would not allow himself to be dictated or forced to love someone he didn’t know.

Soulmate marks be damned!

No one told Dean Winchester how to be and certainly no one told him who to love.

Besides, Dean was far too fucked up for anyone to be with happily.

He knew that, and whoever the sorry son of a bitch turned out to be would find that out himself pretty soon after.

He would love to say he stood true to his internal revolution and that the first day that he woke up to a delicate configuration of honey combs adorned by flowers of varying colors and bright yellow bees he had scoffed or rolled his eyes.

He would rather tell you he went about his day and wasn’t at all intrigued and downright transfixed by the art decorating his forearm.

He would prefer spinning a tail of sharp indifference and tenacious neglect, rather than admit the skip in his heart beat or the tender edge tugging in his chest from the moment his eyes landed on careful pen-strokes.

But...He spent so much time tracing just the tips of his fingers across the ink, him and his soulmate now shared, it made him late for work.

He stared and he marveled, wondered who this astonishingly talented person was, but he didn’t fall in love.

He couldn't have.

Dean didn’t believe in love at first sight-or mark or whatever.

He found the entire concept laughable and a violation of free will. Plus, it wasn’t like he had _met_ them.

He didn’t believe you could just love someone simply because whatever their souls were made of Dean’s and… whoever they are, were the same.

It was baseless and shallow and a breach to Deans personal beliefs!

So, beautiful as it was, Dean ignored the piece of art as if he had never seen it.

Dean shook himself free of strong, thick lines and graceful shading that put his own to shame, not at all wondering who had left their mark on his skin in a way only one person on earth possibly could.

The days passed, each morning the photographer would pretend he was simply carefully getting dressed, but even he couldn't deny by day five that he was searching for dripping honey and ink.

Dean began to think he had imagined the whole thing.

His skin remained eerily unblemished, not that it was concerning or anything. Just odd.

People didn't just randomly decide to construct a small mural on their flesh one day, especially one done so proficiently, then never attempt to again.

It was a habit acquired over time.

He should have let it go.

Should have counted his blessings, glad his soulmate likely felt the same way Dean did about the whole nightmare of it all and refrained from subjecting them both to the violation of free will this 'gift' presented. 

However, he couldn't stop seeing bees and dripping honey behind the map of his eyelids. He couldn't stop imagining someone with the same look he himself would get when struck with inspiration.

He should have stopped himself.

He shouldn't have picked up that pen. He shouldn't have spent an hour studying the construction of insect wings or held his breath as he sat and waited, eyes scanning his impromptu pen tattoo.

Irrationally, for whatever reason, wanting to impress someone, somewhere out there, whose name he didn't know and eyes he couldn't see, that somehow by the power of the universe, shared the marks on his skin.

Initially, it was intended to be a simple drawing of a bee, a not so subtle homage to the ones his faceless soulmate had seared into his memory as he did his skin. Somewhere along the way it turned into a small piece over the back of his hand.

What began as a bee resting at the crease between his thumb and forefinger, transformed into a black and white, carefully constructed sketch of large, ornate flowers, one of which the aforementioned bee sat upon, clouds peeking onto his first knuckles delicately. 

It was far more than he had planned to do, but his hand wouldn't stop. At first Dean thought he was trying to prove he was equally deft as an artist, it took the process of tracing over vague strokes as to make them more pronounced for him to realize the love letter now adorning olive skin.

He thought of drenching his hand in soap and scrubbing away this momentary lapse in judgement but then before unsure green eyes, color began to burst atop sensitive flesh.

All at once he watched as the phantasm of vivid yellow and blues and pinks painted across his hand.

After that it didn’t really matter what he _should_ have done, because once Dean saw his freaking _soulmate_ adapt upon his own work, as a result inspiring him to add to it as well (until both of their wrists and forearms were also covered in ink and marker) it simply no longer mattered. Because after that moment Dean didn't have a say.

Whether he wanted a soulmate or not was no longer relevant, it was no longer a decision he had a right to make, lost to the wind beside looping orange hues, it became a obligation his heart couldn't wait to abide by.

All that remained was a smile of wonder and soft tenderness tugging in a his chest again in a way it never had before.

***

Castiel has spent his whole life imagining who his soulmate would be.

Spent hours as a teenager obsessing over what their interests would be and what they would sound like. He imagined how they would meet and where they would be when the first signs of shared marks would appear.

His parents had found each other by chance, as did his grandparents and theirs before them. A long line of destiny shadowed behind Castiel and his siblings. An honor if you asked him.

His siblings didn't share similar sentiments.

Castiel was the youngest, and by his brothers and sister's estimation the most naive of the Novak clan.

He preferred the term optimistic.

Castiel had four siblings in total, two of which had already found their soulmates.

Michael and Lucifer were the Twins of the Novak family, they were also the oldest and most stubborn.

While he was beyond happy for his brothers, they had been the first in his family history to cheat the system.

Okay, so there's not actually a system to cheat. But, still, much like most people in the world, once Michael and Lucifer turned 21 years old they took to writing their names on the back of their hands, patiently waiting for their response.

It took a few years, likely the universe deciding when the twins had fulfilled who they were meant to be in life, but eventually the call came in elegant script and anxious anticipation. 

Michael had 'found' his soulmate a few months before Luci did, but now its been three years and neither brother had ever been happier.

Sure, they didn't abide by the families not so official tradition, but how could Castiel be anything but thrilled for his big brothers.

Castiel had many passions in life. He was a self made artist, graduated from high school at 15 then obtained his masters in teaching and art school by 20, he adored his family and was probably a little co-dependent of them, he was fascinated by bees and the thing he wanted most in the world was to find his soulmate as spontaneous and magically as his parents did.

He wasn't as tempted as his siblings were to merely write his name with some sharpie over the back of his hand or over his wrist-as Gabriel was partial to- however the entire purpose of the marks was to definitively determine who was your one and only based off shared smears and smudges.

Castiel loved many things, however there wasn't much that rivaled against his art. Every breath he took was slathered in bright reds and blues. The world itself a spectrum of endless possibilities.

Since he was a child, Castiel spent his time doodling on the margins of his composition notebooks and the soles of his shoes. It annoyed the hell out of his mother, but he couldn't help it. 

Castiel, as eccentric as he was, is what most would refer to as awkward and painfully introverted. Art was his solace, the only place he could exist without having to be the weird Novak baby.

His peers weren't very fond of his way of speaking or the fact that he was several years their junior, but when it came to himself, a canvas and an unlimited range of color; a new language burst behind his fingertips and the rest didn't matter.

He was a freshman in high school, 12 years old if he's not mistaken, when he had been struck by a moment of genius.

He was sitting on the front steps waiting for his mother to pick him up when this sweet couple took a seat beneath a tree directly in front of Castiel. They hadn't been terribly interesting, yet the gentle, trusting and clearly in love air surrounding them reached little Castiel from where he sat. 

Naturally, he thought of his soulmate, and wished for a moment to tell him about it, if he could. That's when it occurred to him.

Coupled by the never ending intrigue of his soulmate and the sudden urge to sketch the still life before him, Castiel unknowingly began a habit that would follow him for years to come.

No, Castiel had no desire to write his name on any part of his body and wait patiently for someone to either return the favor or offer their phone number as a response,but that didn't mean he couldn't leave _something_ for his soulmate to identify him with.

Yes, he was far too young to find his soulmate or even think of inking himself to find them, but the idea of drawing something for that one faceless person made Castiel feel closer to them somehow, even without the link yet being established. A promise almost.

It went on that way for years. Some pieces larger than others. Expanding over the skin of his hands or an arm, sometimes over bare thighs or open palms.

After eight years of waiting Castiel was finally 21 years old!

As the youngest, his whole family turned up to celebrate.

The twins and their wives flew down from their respective sides of the country, happy for any excuse to gather together, Gabriel had taken the hour and a half trip down from Vernon the day before the event, trunk packed to its limits with every liquor the sly weasel could get his hands on.

"You're properly delusional, y'know that? Mom and dad should have sent you for study when they had the chance." Castiel jests, looking at his big brothers trunk of contraband.

"What do you say we get this party started early,huh?"

Wiggling his eyebrows suggestively, Gabe pulls a flask seemingly from no where before taking a long swig.

Castiel crinkles his nose in distaste, "You better not have been drinking that while driving."

Rolling his eyes, Gabe shuts his trunk with a single flick of his wrist, turning in the direction of his parents home.

"Relax, little brother. Its filled with Nesquick."

Tossing the flask over his shoulder, not bothering to check if Castiel had caught it, Gabe saunters off to the entrance of his parents home.

Smiling despite himself, Castiel unscrews the top clasp of the flask, "Nesquick my ass." he mutters, bringing the opening to his nose and taking a hesitant sniff.

The sugary scent is unmistakable, causing the youngest Novak to erupt into silent giggles trailing after Gabriel as he laughs to himself.

"So," Gabe sighs dramatically, taking his seat at the island of their parents kitchen.

Tomorrow was the day.

The big Two-Oh. Castiel felt like he had a humming bird in his chest, fluttering violently as he pictured the man someday intended to love him.

"Any special drawings you have planned for your mystery man?" Gabriel says, 

Castiel feels a spark of pleasant anticipation tickle the back of his brain, just the thought of meeting his soulmate setting every nerve ending in his body alive.

Clearing his throat, Castiel shakes himself awake before he falls too deep into his fantasies.

"Oh, please, Gabe. Of course not." The artist scoffs, heart still jittery with excitement.

"You're not being serious, are you?"

Gone was the older brothers teasing tone, replaced by something a bit more severe.

"Why not? You've been drawing for someone who couldn't have been able to see it because you were still underage for literal years, so now that your 'legal' you're gonna stay silent?"

Gabe sounds genuinely confused, but there's an extra edge to his voice Castiel can't put a name to.

Waiting for Castiel to answer, Gabe runs a mindless hand through chestnut hair, the edges of sharpie written letters ornamented on his wrist peaking past the long sleeve mostly covering it.

Castiel lets his eyes rest there for a minute, understanding that there's a hint of sorrow etched into Gabriel's voice. His own cavalier interpretation of soulmates a farce if Castiel had any opinion.

Gabe was about to turn 26, closing in on 5 years of searching for his soulmate. Not that he would ever admit his two year backpacking trip around the world was anything other than to quench his thirst for adventure.

5 years wasn't a long a time in the grand scheme of things but Castiel understood his brothers anguish.

Many people acquired this way of thinking that could be seen as a variation of self deprecation and personality dysphoria, where they blamed themselves for not being 'the person they were meant to be' in order to meet their one and only.

Castiel felt his heart ache for his brother, while he could admit he had an idealistic exposition when concerning the topic of soulmates, he wasn't blind to the draw backs that also came with the deal.

Some people never found their soulmates, either for lack of becoming their meant to be self or cruel twists of fate. Others found them but their true match was a criminal or abusive or simply things didn't work out, rare as that last one was, it _did_ happen.

"Gabe, its unlikely the first day of my being 'legal', as you say, will result in me getting a response from my soulmate. Mom and dad were both 26 when they finally got the marks.", Cas states, partly because it's true and partly because he wants to remind his brother that age doesn't matter and to not lose hope.

We find our soulmates when we do.

"Cassie, just draw something for the guy. If just for shits and giggles."

Castiel frowns, "Why are you insisting on this?"

"Because, little brother," Gabe sighs, "Unlike the rest of us, you've had your shit together since you were fifteen years old. If any of us, between you, me and Anna has a chance to find their soulmate first, its _you."_

"Gabe-"

"Just draw something. What's the worst that could happen?"

Oh, what was the worst that could happen?

 _Reality_ , that's what.

Reality could happen, and all the wistful, unharmed images of love Cas had constructed for himself could darken and twist violently before his eyes.

Castiel could write on his skin tonight and wake up with a name on his forearm or hand similar to those on his siblings and find love.... or he could find disappointment. 

Cas knows he spent the majority of his life obsessing over who the man behind his skin would be, what his voice would sound like, how they would meet.

He could drown himself in emotion and suspense, eyes permanently fixed to his flesh then simply wake to nothing.

Another day of silence saluting his skin, yet this time with the proof that he was still a child, just as his family insisted, all except for Gabriel of course.

If he did mar his skin with ink and hope, an expression of a love letter, more shapes than words, a language more profound than any other Castiel has ever come to know and he received no response...

All that would tell him is he was still naive and had a lot of growing to do before he became _'who he needed to be'_ and maybe he wasn't quite ready for that.

Still, he looked into his brothers amber colored eyes, the most tender of all his siblings, the most heinous too, who encouraged him in his art and never gave him any shit for being in love with someone he had never met. Castiel always figured his understanding was due to Gabe himself having done the same, not as thoroughly as the artist had, but enough that the absence of a literal stranger left them both feeling...unfinished- Pending completion.

"Gabe," Castiel tries again, "You're going to find them."

Castiel pushes as much conviction into his voice as he can, his face falling when he sees Gabe sigh and straighten his shoulders.

"This has nothing to do with _my_ soulmate, Cassie. This is about you and yours."

"Doesn’t it though?"

Neither of them say anything for a few beats of time. Gabe searching for something witty to ease the weight of an honest to an God conversation (An activity he wasn't very familiar with) as Castiel seared ice blue eyes into his own, enough to keep him from saying something stupid.

"If the absence of those we love or are intended to love don't affect us, we will never appreciate the gift that is their presence."

Gabriel sucks in a sharp breath. There’s validation in his brothers words, endorsing feelings he's convinced himself were shameful.

Of course he couldn't very well tell his baby brother that.

Instead he let Castiel's words wash over him privately, tugging the sleeve of his left arm down unconsciously until it covered most of his palm. His name written in delicate handwriting he wasn't sure how he continuously possessed hidden by cotton.

He let Castiel's words run their intended course before reaching into the nearest drawer by the island. Rummaging blindly for a moment, Gabriel finds what he was looking for. Grasping the object in his hand for a moment he then gently tosses it in Castiel's direction.

The pen slowly rolls towards the younger man, before he can say anything though, Gabe was standing and making his way towards the stairs.

"Draw him something, Cassie."

***

Castiel was never in short supply of motivation when it came to art. Like any one else, of course he experienced the occasional art block, but sending his soulmate a secret love sketch they would never receive, seemed to always do the trick in sparking his creative juices back to life.

For the first time ever though, the youngest Novak stared at his skin, brows pinched and lip caught beneath pearly white teeth without the faintest idea of what to draw. 

Gabe wasn't much help either, when he later suggested a waterfall composed of flaccid penises.

After shoving his way-past-tipsy brother out of his room, Castiel pulled out all his supplies, including his absurdly expensive _Copic_ sketch markers.

He thought of drawing many things, none of which felt quite right.

He contemplated sketching out his families house, or the lake by the old abandoned church Castiel liked to disappear to. He thought of tracing mindless patterns across his skin without rhyme or reason, but none of it felt like _enough_.

When it came to the work he made for his soulmate, his art was an ever flowing stream.

The one area where art block wasn't an obstacle because there wasn't a thing on earth he didn't want to share with his one and only.

Yet here he stood, staring at fresh flesh.

It felt like an eternity before the spark of _knowing_ possessed his limbs and before he knew it, his tongue was poking out the side of his mouth and his hands were looping and scratching ink across his forearm.

He bowed his head over his arm and traced over and over his lines, making them sharp and firm withe precision of a long time artist.

Less trying to impress his soulmate, more so wanting them to be able to read the underlying message living within each negative space.

Castiel tries not to let the excitement run too wild. Tried to tell himself how rare it was to be exactly who the universe intended for you to be the first day of being 21 years old.

Still, he couldn't stop himself. He _felt_ like he was who he was supposed to be. He thought he was set in his ways, personality wise, and overall, he felt _ready._

For whatever cosmic being responsible for all of this, he felt ready for his soulmate, willing to love and sacrifice, in a place emotionally where he could sustain a relationship and fall into that category of happy he hasn't had the power to access.

Before he knew it, he was placing the last of his pens down and admired his completed work. A shy smile tugged at the edges of his lips, feeling rather proud of himself.

He told himself it didn't matter if he woke up the next morning without an accompanying mark, broadcasting to anyone with sight the bond that one day would blossom between himself and another.

He promised the empty walls of his rooms that if he woke up in the morning with nothing but his own marks on his skin, it wouldn't break his heart.

He promised...

But Castiel might have buried himself beneath plush bedding the afternoon of his birthday.

Might have searched every available inch of skin in the mirror, heart sinking down to his toes when the only marks he found were self inflicted. 

He might have lost a battle with unwarranted traitor tears after hours of waiting and hoping his soulmate was a late sleeper and he might not have cared when the ocean of sorrow drowned his shirt in his shame.

His walls were mocking him.

What does he have to cry about? It wasn't like he lost anyone. Not anyone found anyway.

He was being ridiculous!

Be that as it may, he plastered on a fake smile and didn't let the disappointment consume him (visibly, anyway). And if Gabriel gave him a silent, questioning look as he came down the stairs, the choirs of _"Happy Birthday!"_ hollow and far away to Castiels’ ears, he maybe didn't answer.

But he did drink.

Drank his 21st birthday into oblivion.

Surrounded by his family, but never feeling more alone. A phantom sensation, akin to what a finger trailing along skin would feel like, ghosted atop risen skin where the fading ink on his arm stood to taunt him, but he ignored it.

He didn't draw.

Days passed before he could.

***

Castiel had no right to feel so firmly hollow.

”Catch a grip!”, He hissed to himself, desearles trying not to let the detestation paradise him where he stood. 

His heart was aching and calling out to a name his mouth didn't have the means to wrap around. His hands were reaching out for a body that had never been there to begin with like a shadow of a person pretending to be alright.

It had been over a week since his birthday. He hadn't taken to his usual doodling away on his skin since then.

The finest basis of his personality was his part as an artist, and he couldn't even bring himself to look at his sketch book the first couple of days.

Castiel stared after the ceiling, making patterns that weren't there, with the creases and divots playing at the edge of his walls. He let a sigh rock through his chest, willing himself to stop being so ridiculous.

After three days, he pored himself into every study of art he had learned over the years.

He painted that mural on his sisters bathroom wall like she had been asking, sculpted a handful of small clay figurines for his mothers office and sketched as he people watched. He even tried his hand at photography. 

Indulging Gabriel on his last days in their childhood home, recreating family photos as adults in similar clothing.

It was all very distracting, as intended, but the pit in his stomach and the drag of his bones never lessened.

Here he was, so high and mighty, assuring his older brother that his time would come. That his one and only was out there and not to mope, for the lack of a better word, in their absence.

He was such a hypocrite.

After exhausting all possible forms of entertainment left, Castiel felt worn out. Not particularly tired, but unwilling to move from where he sat.

He conjured up the memory of his sweet sister, Anna, reacting to her mural. He felt his chest bubble up with pride. A little ashamed he had put it off so long when it brought her so much joy.

Anna was the only girl in the family, and while he was the youngest they all held an especially tender spot for the Novak sister.

Of course, she had been the one to fend off Castiel's bullies when they were younger, as opposed to the usual way of brothers protecting their sisters. But he didn't mind that so much, there was a sense of comradery between them. Being the youngest, Castiel was the baby, being the only girl, Anna was also treated like the baby.

It was probably why the minute they were old enough, the two siblings had moved in with one another. They were the only ones in the family that _didn_ 't underestimate each other, so it only made sense.

Smiling to himself, he willed the happiness to soak into his skin. To stay there before his eyes could trail back to his skin.

Forced himself to think of his mothers joy next, and all the pictures she sent of his miniature pots displayed on her desk.

Kept himself happy, feeling useful...normal.

It didn't seem to work for long.

Just as it had all week, Castiel's smile fell from his face and was replaced by a deep frown. His gaze pinched and contorted as he tried not to think of the man- the only man in the world. 

He wondered if he should try again, but quickly shook the notion from his mind. Unwilling to reinstate this feeling of disappointment.

He dragged crystal blue eyes away from pristine pale skin and went back to creating patterns in the plaster.

It's not like his character had changed in any drastic way in the last week. He still felt the same. Still looked the same. If he wasn't who he was meant to be eight days ago, it was unlikely that the exaggerated mopeyness and desperate need for distractions elevated his status by much.

Shaking his head, he forced his mind to wonder to other projects he had yet to begin. Mentally planning his course of action.

Several minutes had passed, the depressed, newly 21 year old, trying to think of how many shifts he'd have to pick up in order to replenish his oil paints stash.

Sitting up he reached over to his bedside table, where a random notebook lived. Always available for late night bouts of inspiration. Castiel was prone to getting sparks of creativity at the most inopportune moments, seconds before sleep would drag him down for instance, by the time he woke up the ideas would be nothing but a vague half thought that would never again find completion, lost to the world.

The sun shone brilliantly through his open window. Bright yellow dancing along the white pages of his notebook, Castiel's pen scratching frantically about the pages, trying to get as much of his ideas written down before they could disappear as quickly as they came.

Castiel imagined plenty of ways his soulmate would reveal himself to him. Ranging from a shy scribbling of ' _Hello'_ across a wrist or a bold proclamation of their long awaited name inscribed onto his palm. Each intangible possibility awakening a swarm of rabid butterflies in his stomach.

He was sure he wouldn't have even cared if his Soulmate had been just as generic as all the rest, with a name and a phone number being his very first mark of love.

He sort of expected it. There weren’t many people who shared his fascinated dance with fate.

What he never expected was for it to be quite so lovely. So _heart stopping._

He was positive familiar flaps of wings would roar to life within him, body thrumming with excitement and a resolution that came with this awaiting love of his.

He pictured how high or low the sun would be in the sky, sitting at home or people watching in the afternoon. If it was raining or snowing, if he was happy or sad moments before.

Every verifiable possibility played about Castiels overactive imagination for years and still... he wasn't ready for the explosion that overcame him.

He couldn't tell you if the light reflecting off the piece of paper he now rested his hand on was the sun or the moon. Couldn't tell you what he was feeling the moment- or the _year-_ before that magical second of realization as he noticed the first signs of pen strokes.

Before this very moment nothing _existed_.

Nothing mattered, nothing was _worth_ remembering because as Castiel scribbled nonsense on a sheet of meaningless paper, every molecule in his body bust into color and all at once everything was _beautiful_.

Entranced, Castiel watched an image form atop his right hand, dropping the pen he had been holding, The raven haired artist practically cradled his hand in his other, heart thumping erratically in his chest. Swelling in size with each passing beat.

Those pesky, familiar, butterfly's were no where to be found. They were replaced by a warm sheen of belonging he had never felt before.

Bright blue eyes scanned across every inch of inked skin, hearing himself gasp as he arrived to what appeared as the finished result.

How long had he been watching?

 _Breathtaking_.

His soulmate was exceptionally talented and it appeared sentimental if he had based the conception of his work of art after Castiel's drawn love letter. 

That thought alone sent every nerve in his body aflame. 

_Wait...did that mean he saw it?_

Was it just a coincidence? If not, why wait eight _days_ before responding.

Before he could dwell too much on any of those questions, Castiel snapped himself out of his stupor in favor of scrambling for his nearest stash of markers.

His hands were steady in their work, despite his nerves and his heart racing, running in the direction of the man behind his skin. 

***

They were both goners.

Each day, one or the other would find a beautiful piece of art etched onto the edge of a palm or sketched onto a bare thigh and everyday without fail, they would each adapt upon the others initial work.

Be it by sharpening lines or adding their independent artistic styles, sometimes color, usually by Castiel's hand, either way, neither of them truly finished a piece. Waiting with warm anticipation for the person on the other side of their soul to set their skin aflame with passion and talent and _promise_. 

The weeks passed and that is how they proceeded. 

Wordless communication. 

Each day one or the other would fall further in love with the person behind smudges and a promised life neither could even begin to fathom. 

Castiel still determined to leave things to destiny, appreciated their little dance. Skirting away from the obvious inquiries, like; _What’s you’re name?_

While those desires and curiosities kept him up at night, fantasizing about his artist, he stood true to his belief in destiny.

Yes, he wanted to meet his soulmate, hopelessly, he also wanted that fairy tale story that came with having him, and it was all already a dream, so who was Castiel to tamper with fate...right?

For Dean, on the other hand, besides being utterly fascinated by his soulmates obvious artistic brilliance, this drawing only arrangement was mutually beneficial as he was still grappling with the sudden pull this stranger held over him. 

He went from definitively not wanting a soulmate in the slightest, to spending every free moment analyzing each stroke of paint married to his skin, researching odd topics based off what his soulmate shared that day, grueling over ideas on what he would offer him in return. Thinking of ways he could leave sleeves of himself in his art. Little references to his character and life. 

He often wondered if his soulmate did the same.

Time continued to breeze past, both men, still entertaining their odd ways of communicating privately relishing in the others distanced presence, but yearning for more anyway. 

They had yet to learn each others names or heard one anothers' voice but Dean felt as if he had never known anyone as well in his entire life. He had taken to referring to his soulmate as Angel in his mind, as a response to all the wings that they would scrawled along their flesh.

Some pure and white glowing off of Deans olive colored skin and other times pitch black wide wings, feathers detailed with silver or gold or blues, sometimes on his wrist or his entire forearm( like the first time), sometimes the size of a quarter on the edge of his shoulder.

Each one knocked the breath right out of the older man.

Angel just seemed to fit after he found that last one. 

After nearly two months of their beautifully peculiar correspondence, Dean had picked up on subtle signs that revealed just a little extra than their marks did.

Like the way his soulmate had a habit of tracing over the same line over and over again as he contemplated his next move, or would sometimes leave his adaption open ended when the work was particularly intricate. Dean thought these pieces was his soulmates way of revealing himself as well. Fragments of his personality Dean had yet to uncover. 

Point was they both wanted to know the other better, but _how_?

Truly, it was an accident. (What a beautiful mistake)

Dean had been teaching a class at his local rec. center, he liked to pick up odd jobs here and there, not just because he honestly was hurting for money, (Freelance photography only payed well with steady clientele, something the photographer didn't really have an abundance of), but he also genuinely enjoyed teaching art in all it’s forms to beginners and children alike. 

That particular afternoon, Dean had been demonstrating the basic techniques associated with charcoal to a modest group of Twelve 5th graders left to spend their Saturday afternoon covered in raven colored smudges.

Smiling fondly to himself, Dean ended the class informing the kids on the importance of signing their work. Lecturing, if only to kill the last 10 minutes remaining. 

Every child practicing their signature, with practiced concentration.

Dean scans over his students unique ways of representing themselves for their future pieces.

He smiles to himself, taking in their excitement as they get it just right, some intricately writing their initials or name, others dipping random items with interesting shapes into paint and marking the corners of their canvas’s.

Soon they are all grinning, in that way that carelessly happy way children do and are all saying goodbye to Mr, Winchester.

It’s somewhat possible that Dean did it on purpose.

That the joy radiating off the couples stopping to pick up their children made him somehow miss Angel, even though they had never truly met.

Maybe it was because he had spent the previous twenty minutes not just talking, but watching and demonstrating how to accent your art as your own with a signature. 

But whether it was purposeful or a complete accident, Dean walked home to his empty apartment, setting his things down by the door and making us way to his minimalistic work space, pushed up against the far end of the living room, not knowing his next moves would change his life forever.

It was his favorite part of the day.

Laying out all of his finest pens, It seemed that his soulmate was partial to colors, which might have led Dean to sell a few extra photos to invest on some high quality _Inkonic_ finelinner colored pens. 

Sweeping his gaze quickly across his hands first, then his arms, catching sight of the pieces that he and his soulmate had completed a few days ago, fading quickly but present enough to fill the photographer with a jolt of electricity, but he comes up short.

Raising the sleeve of his tee shirt, Dean found a beautiful interpretation of the Golden Gate Bridge displayed across the inside of his bicep.

His stomach drops as he lets himself hope that his mystery artist also lives in the city by the bay. 

Dean begins his work, outlining the image of a man standing by the bridge. Not particularly to scale but large enough you can see details but not so large it overshadows the sharp edges and striking colors of the sturdy landmark that his city is known for. 

The man is holding a Nikon D500, strap handing around his neck. It’s not until after he’s finished putting the details of his drawn mans jeans that he realizes he drew himself.

Not detailed enough for any significant features to be perceived but enough for him to recognize the helplessness in which he wanted this stranger to know him. 

He didn’t even realize he did it. Honest!

Sighing to himself, Dean pushed aside the urge to just write his number over the back of his hand, choosing to distract himself with nondescript tasks around the house. Fluffing the pillows and reorganizing the spice cabinet. 

Anything with his hands that wouldn’t scare his Angel away. 

He couldn’t begin to understand what was happening to him, and he had long since given up trying to figure it out. All he knew was this not so little thing with Angel has been the greatest thrill of his life. 

He was placing the last of thee dishes on the rack when he felt the familiar scratch on the surface of silk. Not even biting back the smile edging towards his lips as he lifted his arm to see what Angel had added. 

He’s not sure which he noticed first, but they each said the same thing. 

Right there beside the silhouetted man Dean had registered as himself, was his name in blunt writing, announcing himself loudly to the person with whom he shared his soul.

**Dean W.**

Written below it, for the first time, Dean saw Angels handwriting. Because scrawled below his own signature was one simple name followed by an astounding question.

**_Dean?_ **

***

Dean couldn’t remember how to breathe as he watched the numbers appear almost timidly towards his elbow. 

Cas held his breath. Equal parts excited and petrified.

But as soon as those five little letters were scribbled across the pit of his elbow, he was done for.

There was no hope for him. He was now lost to all his desires and he never wanted to be found again and before he knew what he was doing, his number was suddenly on his arm and before he could muster enough anxiety to regret what he had done, his phone dinged from across the room.

With shaky, nimble fingers, Castiel scrambles from his bed over to his dresser and sucks in a shivering breath as he takes in the very first text he will ever receive from his artist. 

**_Hey , Angel._ **

Gnawing on his lip nervously, Castiel quickly types out a reply before he can talk himself out of it. 

**Angel?** , he asks.

**_It suits you._ **

**Does it now?**

**_I’m surprised by the phone number but I’m glad you gave in before I did,_** His artist - _Dean_ \- swiftly counters completely ignoring his previous question before sending out another message, 

**_Don’t be too devastated about it though, babe. I wasn’t too far behind ;)_ **

Releasing a disbelieving laugh to himself, the raven haired man smirks down at his cellphone, feeling the wisps of adrenaline and the unknown tickle the tips of his fingers. 

This feels far too natural-Too normal. As if he has been texting his soulmate - _Dean_ \- his whole life, as if they have spoken a thousand conversations, 

**You don’t actually know me...Dean**

**_Not yet, but I will._ **

From then on out their communication shifted between texting and their skin. Dean, as viscerally ecstatic as he was to have a more constant and instant means of communication, was especially relieved when the very next morning he woke to a shy set of wings proudly placed on his left wrist. 

**Author's Note:**

> Sooooo, What d’cha think?   
> Not too bad, right, I’m really excited to write more, please, please let me know what you think! Comments make me so happy and they help encourage me to write as well!  
> I super hope you enjoyed! TY!  
> Stay safe, loves!!


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